


Overindulging

by impalaloompa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, So basically, Sort Of, and feels things, and jaskier helps him, don't really know how to tag this, geralt gets a stomach ache, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaloompa/pseuds/impalaloompa
Summary: Jaskier knew something was wrong the second he approached the table. Geralt was hunched over in his chair and the plate of steaming stew in front of him lay untouched. Then Jaskier noticed the brown paper bags. The very clearly empty brown paper bags.He bit his lip and gingerly sat opposite the Witcher.Geralt looked very sick. He was slightly grey, and he was clutching his stomach.“Oh Geralt. Please tell me you didn’t-” Jaskier felt his chest ache at the miserable expression on the Witcher’s face.“M’sorry,” Geralt mumbled.“You ate all of it? Everything I bought?” Jaskier would be annoyed if it weren’t for the pitiful groan that escaped from the Witcher.Jaskier thumbed his temples, forcing away the bubble of laughter that rose with how ridiculous this situation was.“I don’t feel so good,” Geralt whined. Hewhined, and Jaskier felt his heart melt.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79





	Overindulging

**Author's Note:**

> comments and feedback water my crops

For the first time in a long time, Jaskier wasn’t completely bereft of coin. ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’ had proved very popular with the masses and in the months that followed after writing it, the pouch he kept on his belt jingled merrily with every step. 

Which was why, when they stopped in Novigrad to discuss a contract with a merchant, he got a little excited in the market and decided to indulge in something sweet. Geralt had rolled his eyes at him as he popped brown paper bag after brown paper bag into his satchel and fixed him with a look that Jaskier was quickly learning to decipher as ‘I don’t understand you and we need to move this along before I let out an annoyed grunt.’ 

Jaskier joined him again, grin lighting up his face as they wove their way through the busy town square towards the tavern they were to spend the night in.

“Why waste your coin?” Geralt grumbled as he spotted Jaskier patting his satchel.

“Because dear Witcher,” the bard hummed, “I’m allowed to treat myself to nice things, things that I want. With coin that I earned, might I add, so there comes a feeling of satisfaction with the purchase. Spending isn’t wasteful if it makes me happy.”

“Hm.”

“Why shouldn’t I enjoy the things I like? It’s been too long since I’ve had chocolates and cakes and other sugary delights. Not that your rabbit stew isn’t lovely and all, but I’m allowed to indulge a little in finer things. You can’t tell me you’ve never bought something just because you want it?” 

“Hm.”

The tone of this ‘hm’ was subtly different than the last and Jaskier was starting to get good at picking them apart.

“Really? Never? Not even a sneaky sweet? Have you even had chocolate and the like before?”

“No,” the Witcher grunted, “If it isn’t essential to my survival, I’d rather save the coin.”

“Brothels are the exception,” Jaskier smirked at the glare in Geralt’s amber eyes, “No, no, I get it. We all have needs.”

Geralt’s jaw twitched and Jaskier had to bite back a laugh as they entered the tavern.

They were met by a wall of heat, the scent of ale and sweat heavy in the air. The buzz of chatter was loud and Geralt pulled a face at the onslaught to his senses.

As Geralt marched over to an empty table in the corner, Jaskier sidled up to the bar to discuss a warm meal and rooms for the night with the barkeep.

The Witcher found that Jaskier was much more successful in this endeavour than he had ever been, and it was easier to leave the young man to it. 

Since Posada, he had begrudgingly allowed Jaskier to travel with him with the agreement that when they reached Oxenfurt, they’d part ways. Geralt had tried to dissuade the bard from his company many times but Jaskier was stubborn, and for some reason unknown to him, had stuck around. 

He had to admit, having Jaskier by his side did have its benefits. 

For one, negotiations for contracts went smoother and he was paid better for his work. The bard, even only eighteen years old, exuded this charismatic charm that seemed to make people feel guilty for short-changing or trying to cheat the Witcher. Those who still tried were met with Jaskier’s sharp words and indignant anger and often the threat of a rude song being composed about them. 

For another, there was the whole tavern and inn situation. On his own, Geralt would be extremely lucky to get a room anywhere, often having to camp under the stars, which he didn’t really mind, but there were times when a roof over his head was definitely preferable. Since meeting Jaskier, they were rarely turned away as long as Jaskier promised the Witcher’s best behaviour and a set or two to entertain the patrons. 

Then there was the song, and the other ballads Jaskier had started composing about his daring deeds. Geralt couldn’t deny that the general attitude towards himself had improved ever so slightly, and Jaskier assured him that the more songs he put out into the world, the more the fame of the White Wolf spread, the easier things would become.

It almost made the endless talking and impromptu lute playing and complaining about sore feet, the cold, the heat, being hungry, being tired, worth it. Almost.

Jaskier joined him at the table with two frothing ales and a coy smile.

“Plates of stew on their way, and two rooms. Fought hard for them too. Stingy bastard was only willing to give us one room to start with,” he perched on the chair opposite Geralt and took a deep drink from his tankard.

Geralt shrugged, “One room doesn’t bother me.”

A strange look crossed Jaskier‘s face but it was gone before Geralt had the chance for it to fully register.

“Meh, I thought you’d prefer having the bed to yourself seeing as how I apparently steal all the sheets,” there was an air of nonchalance about Jaskier’s tone.

“You do,” Geralt narrowed his eyes at him.

“Do not,” Jaskier retorted, then after a beat, mumbled, “Not my fault if I’m cold.”

“Hm.”

“Riveting as this conversation is, as always with you Witcher, I agreed to play a few songs before our food is brought over.”

“Singing for your supper?” Geralt grunted, a hint of amusement in his expression.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Jaskier scowled at him.

He pulled his lute case onto the table and then lifted the instrument out to make sure it was in tune.

The first thing Jaskier had done with the first coin he had earned was to buy a protective travel case for the lute Filavandrel had gifted him. Even with his youthful clumsiness and brash impulses, Jaskier took very good care of his instrument. Perhaps even more so than Geralt did his blades. The Witcher couldn’t help but admire the bard for it.

Jaskier settled back in the chair a moment, scanning the tavern to pick out a good spot for a performance then inhaled sharply as a thought struck him.

He took out the brown paper bags he had slid into his satchel and arranged them on the table in front of him, peering into each one until he found what he was looking for. He popped a delicate looking chocolate truffle into his mouth and hummed in contentment, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Geralt arched a brow at him and Jaskier tilted his head slightly.

“Want one?” he asked, offering the bag to Geralt.

The Witcher could smell the thick, rich sweetness wafting from the bag and sighed. Jaskier smiled in delight as Geralt took one and shoved it in his mouth. His jaw almost dropped, and his eyes blew wide. He chewed enthusiastically and swallowed.

“Good?” the bard grinned.

Geralt nodded, his pupils still dilated.

“By all means, have another,” Jaskier hummed as he stood and practically skipped between the chairs and tables to take up a position in front of the crackling hearth.

He shook himself, trying to dislodge the knot of nerves that had settled in his gut, and beamed at the patrons, none of whom were really paying him any attention.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen,” he lilted, “My name is Jaskier and I will be playing for you throughout the next few hours.”

There were a few eyes on him now and he darted his tongue across his lower lip.

With a strum of his lute, he launched into ‘Toss A Coin,’ and felt himself relax a little in the familiarity and safety of the music. A ripple of recognition crossed many of the faces watching him with a new intrigue.

Jaskier still couldn’t believe how quickly this song had spread and when he hit the chorus a few of the patrons joined in. A giddy feeling rushed through him.

He let himself get lost in the moment and when he finished with a flourish, the round of applause that followed had him beaming. 

“Thank you,” he chirped.

Filled with confidence, he went into a ballad he had recently composed about Geralt taking on a wraith that had been haunting an orchard. He was still fine tuning it, but by the reactions of the crowd, he was getting close. 

He took a few requests after that, and after over an hour of playing, he announced he was taking a break but would be back soon. This was met with a mixture of cheers and protests and he made his way back to Geralt, vibrating with the adrenaline that came with performing.

Jaskier knew something was wrong the second he approached the table. Geralt was hunched over in his chair and the plate of steaming stew in front of him lay untouched. Then Jaskier noticed the brown paper bags. The very clearly empty brown paper bags. 

He bit his lip and gingerly sat opposite the Witcher.

Geralt looked very sick. He was slightly grey, and he was clutching his stomach.

“Oh Geralt. Please tell me you didn’t-” Jaskier felt his chest ache at the miserable expression on the Witcher’s face.

“M’sorry,” Geralt mumbled.

“You ate all of it? Everything I bought?” Jaskier would be annoyed if it weren’t for the pitiful groan that escaped from the Witcher.

Jaskier thumbed his temples, forcing away the bubble of laughter that rose with how ridiculous this situation was.

“I don’t feel so good,” Geralt whined. He _whined_ , and Jaskier felt his heart melt.

“I’m not surprised,” the bard sighed, trying to decide the best course of action.

He wanted to eat, to fill his stomach with warm stew and then get back up and continue his set, but Geralt needed him right now. The Witcher’s distress was blinding and Jaskier swallowed down his petty selfishness, deciding that Geralt was being punished enough for his lack of self-control. Not a phrase he thought he’d ever associate with the white-haired man. 

“Come on, let’s get you to your room and settle you down,” Jaskier rose again, bringing his lute with him as he placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

The Witcher slowly got up on unsteady legs and Jaskier looped an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright. The bard led him up the stairs and guided him into a small room, whispering quiet words of reassurance as he did so. 

The pallet bed with its straw mattress crowded the left wall and a washstand with a basin inhabited the right corner.

Jaskier lowered Geralt onto the bed. The Witcher gurned, paling a shade greyer, and watched with dull eyes as Jaskier hovered awkwardly.

“Jaskier… I think… I think I’m dying,” Geralt groaned through a spasm of pain.

“You’re not dying. It’s just stomach-ache. You’re going to be fine,” Jaskier fidgeted with his fingers, “Has this never happened to you before?”

“No. Don’t like it. When will it go away?” the Witcher grunted.

“You should just be able to sleep it off. With your Witchery metabolism, you should feel better in no time,” Jaskier chewed his cheek as Geralt lay back, hands splayed over his extended stomach.

Jaskier knew what he was supposed to do, he just didn’t know if he should, if it would be welcomed, if he was crossing some sort of boundary. He’d known Geralt for a few months. He didn’t think that giving his new friend a stomach rub for overindulging was quite acceptable yet.

Geralt closed his eyes, his breath coming in sharp huffs and Jaskier perched cautiously on the edge of the bed. 

“Geralt,” he said timidly, “Do you want me to…to help?”

“Is there something you can do?” Geralt’s eyes snapped open, wide and imploring.

Jaskier gave a shy nod.

If it weren’t for the tight ache in his guts, Geralt would have pondered the unusual reservedness of his young bard companion. But another wave of nausea crashed over him and he grunted out a “Please,” instead.

Jaskier swallowed thickly and very gently, rested his hand on Geralt’s firm stomach. As he started to massage soothing circles, the fabric of Geralt’s shirt bunching under his fingers, the Witcher let out a shaky sigh and pressed his head back into the pillow.

“Feels nice. Thanks,” Geralt muttered as he closed his eyes again.

Jaskier’s heart leaped into his throat at the trust the Witcher was placing in him. He knew this relationship he was trying to build with Geralt was very one-sided. He wasn’t an idiot. But this moment right here, as Jaskier rubbed Geralt’s aching stomach, it sent curls of warmth through him. 

He let the tension in his shoulders release when he realised that the Witcher had fallen asleep and pulled his hand back into his lap.

A strange emotion sparked in his chest as he looked at Geralt and he forced it away. 

Don’t do it Jaskier, he told himself, don’t fall for him. That is a dangerous path to heartbreak. But he couldn’t help the shiver of emotion that thrilled through him when Geralt sighed softly, looking so peaceful and utterly beautiful. 

Jaskier pushed himself up from the bed and reached for the door, glancing one last time at Geralt before leaving the small room. 

He paused in the hallway, listening to the muted sounds of the tavern below, trying to let it drown out the rapid pattering of his heart. 

They were friends. Not even friends. Geralt didn’t have friends. He’d told Jaskier often enough in the past few months. 

But he knew now. That would never be enough. And all Jaskier could do was hope.


End file.
